


Of Bartenders and Worried Boyfriends

by dcjuris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Insecure Dean, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:07:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: Dean gets a little worried after a bartender flirts with Cas. Sam is an awesome little brother.





	Of Bartenders and Worried Boyfriends

Dean's not worried. He's not, okay? How can he be worried about something he wasn't even supposed to hear? He can't. Which is why he's not. 

But he can't get the image of that douchebag bartender flirting with Cas out of his head. He can't stop seeing Cas' stupid gummy smile, all happy and bright when said douchebag asked him out on a date. And he can't stop hearing Cas' reply: _I'd love to, but I'm spoken for_. 

_I'd love to_. Those three words keep playing on repeat in Dean's head, rattling around in his brain, banging and clattering off the walls of his skull. _I'd love to_. He'd _love to_. He'd... _love to_? 

Is that what Cas wants? Flowers and food and sap? That can't be what he wants. Who wants that? Why spend $30 on a bouquet of soon-to-be-dead crap that will probably make one of them sneeze? The fuck is the point of that? What's wrong with beer, pizza, and Star Wars in the bunker living room? Nothing, that's what. 

Which doesn't at all explain why he's standing in Sam's doorway, Baby's keys dangling from his outstretched index finger. "We're almost out of peanut butter." 

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "Okay?" 

He jingles the keys. "Go get some." 

"It's after 7 on Sunday. The only place open is the mega mart two towns over." 

"And?" 

Bitchface #103 makes an appearance. "You want me to drive an hour and a half—one way—for peanut butter?" 

"Yes, Sam, I do. I want you to go get peanut butter. We're almost out." 

"Didn't you buy peanut butter like, a week ago?" 

"Hey, don't look at me. Cas is the one who eats it. I think he bathes in it. Either way." He jingles the keys again. "Time's a wastin'." 

Sam sighs and stands. "Fine." He snatches the keys and pushes past Dean out into the hall. "But I'm making a list. I'm not just going for peanut butter." 

Panic wells up, bright and blinding behind Dean's eyes as he watches his brother stride down the hall. "Where are you going?" 

"To the kitchen. Where else?"

"You uh...you don't have to..." But Sam is already gone, his stupid moose legs moving with ridiculous speed. Dean catches up to him in the kitchen. 

Sam circles the table, a crooked, sappy smile plastered on his face. He runs his hand over the tablecloth, touches a fingertip to the China plate. "Dean..." 

He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and raises his chin in defiance. "What?" 

Sam chuckles. "You could've just told me you wanted the place to yourselves for a while." 

"Yeah, well." 

Sam smiles softly. "You know, now that I think of it, I'm out of shampoo. I should get some while I'm out. They don't always have it at the mega mart, though. I might have to go even further for it." 

"Well, take your time. Wouldn't want your delicate folicles to go into shock or something." 

"I'll see you in a while." He pats Dean's shoulder as he walks out. 

Dean rearranges the flowers in the vase for the twenty-third time. They're not anything fancy—not store bought. But he picked them himself, so maybe that counts for something. 

"Dean, have you seen—" Castiel stops short, head cocked and eyes narrow, standing in the kitchen doorway. "What's this?" 

Dean spreads his hands wide. "I made lasagna." He spins to face the oven, balls his hands into fists. Demons, vampires, ghouls—those he can deal with. Dates? Not so much. He shoves his hands into the oven mitts, pulls the door open, and leans down to pull out the pan. "Hope you like Italian." 

"Dean, what is this?" 

"What does it look like?" He turns and nods to the pan. "Food."

"You made me dinner?" 

Dean's guts knot. His palms start to sweat, and it has nothing to do with the steam swirling off dinner. 

"You never make me dinner." 

He scoffs. "I cook all the damn time. And you're lucky I do, because Sam? Betty Crocker he ain't." 

"But you never cook dinner for just us." 

Dean shrugs. "I just thought you might like it." 

Cas studies him, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You're jealous." 

"What? No. Why would I be jealous? I don't have any reason to be. Do I?" He means it as a challenge, but the words sound small and uncertain. And now he feels stupid, standing here holding a pan of lasagna like a weapon. Or a shield. 

"Dean Winchester, you can be the most stubborn, oblivious, emotionally constipated ass." Cas walks toward him, shaking his head. 

"Gee, Cas, tell me how you really feel." And yeah, okay, maybe he's right, but _damn_. 

Cas takes the pan from him and sits it on the table. He pushes into Dean's space, crowds him back against the counter. "But you are _my_ "—kiss—"stubborn"—kiss—"oblivious"—kiss—"emotionally constipated ass." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yes." He slides his hands down Dean's arms, pulls off the oven mitts and intwines their fingers. 

"You told the bartender you'd love to go to dinner with him." 

"No, I said I'd love to, but I couldn't. I was merely being polite. In truth, it would be nice to go out, on occasion. But I don't need you to be anything other than who and what you are. You forget Dean, I rebuilt you, piece by piece. I've held your soul in my bare hands. I chose you, Dean." 

Dean feels the heat of a blush blaze up his neck. He clears his throat, bites down on his tongue to keep the swell of tears at bay. He nods. 

Cas turns away and moves to the table, understanding he needs a minute, and Dean is so goddamn grateful. 

"So." Dean grabs up a spatula. "If we're done with the chick flick crap, dinner's getting cold."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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